Anthony Blake's Experiment

Part II

Continued. vol. II,

CHAPTER V

raj||EEKS passed by, and the doctor's awful threat had such an abiding influence over Mrs. Gray that her son-in-law had no difficulty in preventing her from catechizing him on the subject of Mrs. Blake, or of inducing her, when the time arrived, to go with her daughter to Aix-les- Bains. But before she went, she saw one or two of her friends, who called to say good-bye to her, and if her words were necessarily few, they were pregnant with suggestion. And as she drove away from the vicarage, she had the satisfaction of knowing that she had done her duty, and that it would not be her fault if the whole country side were not properly enlightened as to the character of the lady whom the vicar was " harbouring " at Myrtle Lodge. As regarded the smaller fry of the com munity this performance of her duty was almost a work of supererogation, for they had already been led by the unaided sagacity of their prejudices to an unfavour able verdict on the sojourner within their gates.

Mr. Thacker, the sexton, had given concise expression to the opinions of the humbler churchgoers, by saying that he didn't see what Wyebourne wanted with papists and Frenchies — Englishmen and the Church of England were good enough for him ; and Mr. Swipes, the publican, had assured his parlour customers that all foreigners were trash, " and their women the trashiest part of 'em," and in Mr. Swipe's parlour Mr. Swipe's word was law. Worse still, Mrs. Ryan, the butcher's wife, had in formed her crony, Mrs. Black, the laundress, that Mrs. Tobin, the cook at Myrtle Lodge, had told the vicar's housemaid, who had told the girl who helped at the almshouse, who had told Mrs. Ryan's niece, who had told Mrs. Ryan with her own lips that since Mr. Blake had gone, Mrs. Blake had always done out her own room herself.

"And if that don't show, ma'am, as 'ow she's no real lady, I should like to know what does ! " concluded Mrs. Ryan, an opinion in which Mrs. Black, and every one to whom she mentioned it, had cordially agreed. But the innuendoes which Mrs. Gray threw out as a parting legacy filtered down in due course to the lower strata, and did much to accen tuate and embitter the original feeling of the villagers against the intruder. Armande was not long in seeling the effects of the charity that thinketh all evil. When first she came to Wyebourne, or rather, when first she took to walking alone after her husband had gone, she had been vaguely struck with the amount of curiosity which she seemed to attract wherever she appeared. But she had set this down to a rusticity of manners which was not to be wondered at in villagers and foreigners, and to her style of dress being so different from that of her neighbours.

The latter peculiarity she thought she might do well to remedy, and she consulted the Miss Sproules, who, through their dressmaker, and by cunning hints of their own, put her in the way of satisfying the Wyebourne criterion of what was becoming in dress. " Not but what," Miss Phoebe had said, "/ should prefer you to remain as you are, for you remind me of the sunny South ; but the other people here are different, never havinoseen my ' bella Itawlia.' " To Armande per sonally the result had been a mortification of the spirit, and she almost cried when she saw herself in the habiliments which the Miss Sproules' dressmaker assured her " left nothing to be desired." But she com forted herself with the anticipation that Anthony would be pleasantly surprised at seeing her look like his own countrywomen, and she had the further mitigation that she would no longer be stared at when she passed through the village.

In this latter expectation she was quickly undeceived. The people still stared at her as much as ever, but now with a difference, the quality of which it was impossible to misapprehend. Where formerly there had been a mere idle or amused curiosity, there were now looks of dislike and reprobation. It was very strange, she thought, but there was no mistaking its reality. What had she done to provoke it ? She was a Frenchwoman, and the lower orders in England, she had heard, did not take kindly to foreigners. But surely that feeling would have shown itself most strongly on her first arrival, instead of developing with time ? She had never done them any wrong — why should they almost scowl whenever they saw her ? It was bewildering. In her own house she was almost equally puzzled. Tobin had never been over gracious, she was a sour, cross-grained old woman, and it was not her way, but latterly she had become almost insolent.

She knew her duty, if other people didn't, she had said one morning apropos of some inquiry Armande had made, and she would do it, but she must be left alone — she couldn't " abide being interfered with and messed about." And Annie, too, who had begun by being pleasant in her manners and desirous to please, had changed, and had given warning. When asked if she had any reason for complaint, she had answered that it wasn't her place to speak ; and when further pressed as to why she wished to leave, she said she disliked being called "out of her name" — referring to Armande's habit of calling her "Annette" — and that she wasn't used to " such goings on." It was all very perplexing and very un comfortable. She thought of writing to Anthony about it, and then she thought she wouldn't trouble him with her annoyances, the more so that she found it difficult to give them tangible substance when she tried to define them.

One of the servants was disagreeable in her manner — there was nothing peculiar in that. The other wanted to leave — it was common for servants to wish to better themselves. The villagers looked askance at her — there was no law to prevent them looking at her as they pleased. Her grievances had a petty, if not a fanciful, ring about them, as she enumerated them one by one ; yet none the less she was conscious of being surrounded by an atmo sphere of hostility and condemnation, which almost stifled her. She would try and make Anthony under stand this when next he came. Why had he ever left her ? How different it would all be, if he were always with her ! How hard to bear this cruel separation ! It was not what she had looked forward to ; her picture of married life, like that which most women draw for themselves, had been one of constant companionship.

But he had ex plained to her why they must, for a time, live apart, and it was not for her, who owed him everything, to repine. Perhaps he would be back again soon, and then she would tell him of these difficulties of hers — he was so clever and quick that he would see at once what she ought to do — but meanwhile she would not spoil her letters by mentioning them. An incident occurred, however, which I I made her falter in her resolution. She had been walking in the beech wood, and on her way home through the village had just turned on to the path which leads to the bridge over the stream at the bottom of the valley, when she was startled by a piercing cry close behind her. It was the cry of a child, and, turning, she saw a little boy sprawling on the road by the side of a can and a small pool of milk.

The urchin had tripped as he was running home with the milk he had been sent to fetch ; he had cut his knuckles in his fall, spilt all the milk, and was both frightened and hurt. He was very tiny, and Armande had a specially soft spot in her heart for small boys. In a second she was by his side, and stooping down she gently raised him, and spoke soothingly to him as she bound up his bleeding little paw with her handkerchief. The boy's crying subsided, but he still sobbed as he pointed to the spilt milk and his empty can. " Show me the milk place," said Armande, picking up the can, " and we will soon get some more." The boy looked up at her with big round eyes, and putting his unhurt hand in hers, was going to show her the way, when the door of a cottage close by opened, and a young woman hurried up and hastily snatched the child from her.

" What are you doing with my boy ? " she asked angrily. "How dare you touch him ?" " He fell," said Armande, in confused sur prise, " and I was going to get him some more milk." " And do you think we would take milk from one of your sort ? " vociferated the other. Her tone was loud and insolent, and Armande was frightened at her vehemence. " My good woman," she protested, " I only tied up the poor child's hand." " Don't ' good woman ' me ! " shouted the mother. "If my child is poor, he's honest. Here, take your handkerchief," tearing it off his hand and thrusting it on her, " and don't let me catch you touching my lad again. Come along home, Tommy," and she dragged away the little boy, who, between fright and pain, broke into a fresh tempest of shrill crying. Armande was rooted to the spot.

She felt dazed and stunned, as if some one had struck her a blow on the head. Were they all mad, these English ? Imagine such a scene happening in France ! In Paris, indeed, she remembered, when she began to think more consecutively, and was walking slowly up the opposite hill, stopping every now and then to recover her breath — for she was still in a flutter, and her legs trembled beneath her — in Paris, she remem bered to have more than once seen a mother of the same class as this one take offence when a smartly dressed lady had stroked a boy's head, or offered him a bon-bon. But then, every one knew what those smart ladies were, and their luxury was resented by their poorer sisters. She could understand those hard-working poor mothers, though knowing more than they did of temptations by which they had never been tried, she could not share their resentment against those who had fallen.

But what had that to do with the outbreak of this English mother against her? Armande was one of those who can thank God that they are not as some others are, without any taint of Pharisaism in their gratitude. She shuddered as she imagined what her feelino-s would be, if any one had a right to speak to her as she had been spoken to in the village. And a wave of love and humble thankfulness surged through her heart as she thought that Heaven had indeed been good to her. How she would try every day to be more worthy of her happiness !

CHAPTER VI

j|^|||S she opened the door, Annie gave ' her a telegram, which she said had arrived not five minutes before. It was from Anthony, and it ran : " Expect me five to-morrow afternoon." The reaction was too much for her ; she turned back and went into the garden, so that Annie should not see the tears in her eyes. She sat down in the shade, and let the beauty of the scene sink into her. It was a glorious day, still and balmy, and the sun flooded the land with a sea of quivering light. Butterflies flickered over the smooth turf and the beds ablaze with flowers ; the air was slumbrous with the humming of bees ; some cattle stood motionless in the field behind the church, and the rooks cawed lazily in the tops of the old elms. What a beautiful world it was, and how pleasant to be alive ! Her thoughts circled round like the swallows over her head, in a wide sweep of grateful delight, and then they flew back to those early days when she had first loved Anthony.

What had he seen in her, she wondered, and why had he chosen one so far beneath him ? She had loved him with all her heart and being ; but he might have had the love of any woman for the asking. How clever he was, and how handsome, with his rare smile like sudden sunshine ! Above all, how different from the others, how courteous, how chivalrous, how noble ! He had never spoken to, or looked at her, as others had looked and spoken. Even from the very first, and before they really knew each other, he had I 7 treated her with respect and as his equal. There had been nothing of that gallantry of which she had seen so much, and which used to revolt her and sting her like an insult. He had entered into her life, and understood her wishes and objects, her struggle to support her mother, her determination to walk straight and keep her own self-respect.

And then the day on which he had told her that he loved her ! It seemed impossible, but it was he who said it, and what he said must be true. And those days at Marly ! Was there anything wanting to the per fection of her happiness ? Only that she should always be with him, that she should be more worthy of his love, and sure always to retain it. Could she be sure ? Why not, when her heart was so full of love for him, and she had no other desire than to please him in everything ? If she had been older, Armande would have known that when a woman begins to reason and ask questions VOL. II. about her happiness, she is already in a fair way to say good-bye to it. But she was very young ; her love was her life, and with the instinct of self-preservation she clung to it the more passionately by reason of the doubt that had dimly crossed her mind as to its permanency.

The passing shadow but made her the keener to realize the brightness of her lot. And he was coming to-morrow ! Would he be pleased at her change of dress, which she had adopted in order to be more like his countrywomen ? She hoped so, she thought so — anyhow she must go and tell Figaro all about it. So she ran and told him, and he, like the wonderful dog he was, understood in a twinkling, and showed his delight at the news by a wild scamper across the garden and out into the fields, where he fell on the cattle with such a fury of assault that they were incontinently routed at his first onslaught. Then she hurried to the kitchen to consult with the terrible Tobin about the preparation of a dish in which the soul of Anthony delighted. She longed to cook it herself, but she knew Tobin would never allow that ; and she was so irresistibly winning and gracious that for once the old harridan was mollified, and consented to do as she was asked, though she did not forget to save her dignity by remarking that if it didn't come out all right, she would take no blame to herself — it was a sin to waste good victuals so — and she would rather cook it than eat it, any day.

Then out into the garden again to mark the flowers she would pick in the morning to make the house sweet and gay against her Anthony's home-coming ; and then she sat down to the piano, and in the lightness of her heart sang one of her old peasant songs in a voice so true and fresh and touching, that old Mrs. Thacker, the sexton's wife, who was passing in the lane, stopped to listen, and stood still where she had stopped, till the song was ended. When she at last moved on, she was surprised to find her cheeks were wet, and she rated herself for an old fool. " Keep your tears, you gowder, for when they're wanted ; but it's queer a voice like that should come from a down right bad un ! Why, I don't believe my Lizzie, who has been singing with the angels these four years come next Michaelmas, can sing any sweeter.

Though to be sure," she added, with a thrill of maternal triumph, "her words will be gey and different. She isn't singing any outlandish furrineerin' lingo, I reckon." While Mrs. Thacker was thus redressing the balance between earthly and celestial melodies, Anthony was sitting in his lodgings in Duke Street, also occupied with reflection on the singer who had prompted the comparison. Things had not been going too well with him lately, and he had been especially irritated by the furore of applause which had greeted the appearance of a romance written, as he told himself, in the most tawdry of styles, or cento of styles, by a man whose powers were immeasurably inferior to his own. A nice world to live in truly, and a pretty public to cater for ! What was it they wanted ? Neither style, apparently, nor truth, nor originality ; but the old tunes ground out in the old way, the old characters or lay figures, the old dresses, the old scenery, the old everything, in short, without an atom of life or reality in the whole of it.

And when he brought out his " Lisette " fresh from the mould of nature itself, it was a hundred to one the public wouldn't have it. His vanity was bruised, and he was seething with futile rage. Then he had bethought himself that it would be a refreshment if he were to go to Armande for a few days — she believed in him, if no one else did ; besides, she had now been long enough at Wyebourne to make it likely that the unaccustomed environment had developed traits which it would be useful to note in his study of her. So he had sent his telegram, and was now thinking about the woman who believed in him, if no one else did. He had never really loved her, though in his way he had believed in her, and recognized the nobility of her nature. The strange contrast between her self and her surroundings had in the beginning stirred his intellectual curiosity and interest ; and the transition from that to a desire to study her thoroughly was easy and natural.

Then she had fallen in love with him, and, though not in love with her, he had not been insensible to the value of such a love as hers. But even before the end of their honeymoon at Marly he had begun to ask himself whether he had not made a mistake. When he returned to England, he had a double motive in taking her at once down to Wyebourne. For, in the first place, if she had remained with him in London, the fact of their relations would have transpired amongst his acquaintances there ; and that he wished to avoid, in case he might hereafter decide to legalize his union with her. And in the second place, he thought that contact with the primitive conventionalities that live around an English village might eventuate in developments of character that would be worth studying. In truth, he felt the necessity for some such developments, if she were to remain as interesting as she had been in the early days in Paris.

For since her marriage her personality had in great measure lost the distinction which for him had constituted her peculiar charm. No doubt she was essentially the same, but the savour which her qualities had gained from their contrast with her former surround ings had evaporated. What was there remarkable in Mrs. Blake being as frank, and straight, and honest, as you please ? The wonder had been that Armande Duparc of the Rue des Petits Chats and the Cafe des Cent Folies had been all these things. He ought to have foreseen the discs £> illusion, and it might have been wiser to leave her where he found her. Then again, she had lost much of her originality and all her independence of spirit. The young girl had had her own ideas of right and wrong, and never cared a sou what others thought, so long as she retained her own approval ; her little cockle-shell of a craft danced fear lessly and merrily on the waters, and held its own with the best of them.

Now she was for ever striving to be what she thought would please him best ; and the worst of it was, that her efforts at self-improvement nearly always disimproved her in his eyes. It was all very gratifying and well meant, but it was also not a little " fade ; " it was not what he had intended, or expected, and he was getting rather tired of it. In the old days you never knew what answer you would get from the saucy gamine who looked you boldly and laughingly in the eyes, and said the first thing that came into her head ; the loving wife was all sub missiveness and deference, hung on your lightest word, and said what she thought you would wish her to say. But perhaps her life at Wyebourne, by herself, and under new con ditions, might have given her a twist for the better. He would go and see, and he hoped he might not be disappointed — for, as he told himself for the second time, he was getting rather tired of the whole business. Such was the man to whose return on the morrow Armande was looking forward in a fever of glowing expectation.

CHAPTER VII.

''f|j||OOD heavens, Armande ! " was Anthony's greeting, even before he had got out of his dog-cart, " what on earth have you got on ? " She had run to the gate on hearing his wheels, and was attired in the local chef-cTœuvre that " left nothing to be desired." " Down, Figaro, down ! or I'll give you what for ! " And then he sub mitted to be embraced. " Now that we've been properly introduced, I insist," he re peated, holding her out at arm's length, " upon knowing what you've got on." " Why, don't you like it ? " " Like it ! Good gracious, have you seen it yourself ? Why, even Figaro can't stand it ! I thought there was something queer with the dog. But where did you raise it, and what induced you to put it on ? " " Oh, the people stared at me in my French clothes. They are not very nice people, some of them — and the Miss Sproules thought I had better dress like them."

" And who are the Miss Sproules ? You said something about them in a letter. They sound like people who'd be sure to know. But come in and give me some tea, and tell me all about them. I'm dying to know the Miss Sproules." Tea was ready, and Armande bustled about him with eager solicitude, making sure he had all he wanted ; and Anthony thought how different it was from the days when in her little room in the Rue des Petits Chats she used to dump her biggin of coffee on the table and say, " Via ! M'sieu est servi ! A laisser, ou a prendre ! " No one ever made coffee like hers. And now the tea was too sweet, and the tea-maker all his own, with out an idea in her head except his pleasure ! She told him about the Miss Sproules, and made him laugh by calling the elder "an old turnip-top," and then at his bidding she reproduced their visit, and for a moment, while the room was filled with a babel of French and English and an unknown tongue which represented Miss Phœbe's " Italian," he felt as if he had got his old Armande back once more.

But the illusion was short, for when he asked what other visitors she had had, she told him of the vicar and his wife, and Mrs. Gray, and he had no difficulty in realizing that with the latter she had cut what he considered to be a sorry figure, How had the mighty fallen ! Imagine the Armande of a year ago breaking down and retreating in tears before a vulgar old cata maran of a parson's mother-in-law ! Why, he would willingly have given ten pounds to have been present at an interview between the pair in the Rue des Petits Chats, and to have helped what was left of Mrs. Gray down the five pair of stairs after it was over. Ichabod ! Ichabod ! Dinner did not mend matters. The special plat was quite as bad as Tobin had predicted, and Armande was full of wifely concern and disappointment. " It was too bad — he had had no dinner," etc., etc.

If she had only laughed it off, and told him he had had quite as much dinner as was good for him, and that he ought to be thankful, he would have been thankful indeed. It wouldn't do — what had become of his Lisette ? After dinner he asked her to sing, and she sang the peasant song which had reminded Mrs. Thacker of her Lizzie, and then he asked for something of a different kind. If she had refused, he would inwardly have applauded her; but she sang the " Caniche bleu " without any demur, and, what was an additional offence, she sang it mechanically — it was flat and dead. She could do nothing right these days. If she could sing such songs now at his bidding, why couldn't she sing them as they ought to be sung, as she used to sing them when her mother's livelihood depended on their success ?

Was it possible that at bottom she did not love him so completely as he had imagined ? That might supply a piquancy which, in the pass things had come to, would not be amiss. But any doubt, or hope, he might have had on this score, was quickly dispelled, when presently she came to him, and sitting on a cushion at his feet, with her arms clasped round his knees, she looked up at him and poured forth the story of her love. What did she not owe him ? How often she lay awake at night thinking of the difference he had ANTHONY BLAKE 'S EXPERIMENT. 31 made in her life ! What would have become of her, all alone, with her mother no longer there to work and care for, if he had not loved her? How had she dared to love him ? And what had she done to deserve his love ? When would they be able always to live together ?

She would not be in his way, she would always be at hand when he wanted her, and never when he didn't — and if he were ill, who could nurse him and look after him as she would ? Surely it would not be long before they could always live together ? and so on, and so on, and so on. Anthony felt there was nothing to be made of this — she was too entirely and irretrievably his own. His Armande was dead — and what could he make of this woman ? she was useless to him. But though he was a hound, and the inherent baseness of his nature had been almost in credibly worsened by his treatment of the woman who believed in him, he could not as yet find it in what served him for a heart to crush her by telling her the truth. Besides, he might still find it convenient to come down occasionally to Wyebourne ; he needn't do it very often, and he could choose his own time for coming when the fancy took him.

So he temporized, and told her she must have patience ; he could not leave his work, and if she were now in London she would hardly ever see him. It was in every way better to wait till he had arranged things so that they could live as they ought to live. And Armande, of course, was persuaded that he was right. Did she not owe him her trust as well as her love ? only she hoped their separation would soon come to an end. As to this, Anthony was necessarily vague; he would do what he could, but Rome wasn't built in a day, and he could not do impossibilities. "Are you not well enough off as you are ? " he asked ; " a lovely country, a charming little house, and not a care in the world. To say nothing of my dropping in to bother you whenever I can get away from town." " Ah, if you were but always here !